Wanting
by Lucifer's Garden
Summary: In which both Sam and Dean realize that as long as they have each other, there is nothing to be afraid of. Wincest! T for language and things that are sexy.


I don't own Supernatural or its characters – they all belong to their respective creators.

Well it's about damn time I wrote this! Yeah, my first slash fic, not to mention a Wincest! Yay! I had so much fun, I couldn't stop myself, even though I should be trying to finish the latest chapter of _A Stir of Blood_. Oh well. Hopefully some of you out there enjoy it!

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Sometimes Sam would catch himself staring. He couldn't help it. Dean had a kind of masculine beauty that made it damn hard not to notice when he walked into a room. People were simply drawn to him, and there was no shortage of women to vouch for that. Strong features, and compelling, focused eyes that commanded the air out of your lungs; a disarming smile and a rich laugh that had a strange way of putting you at ease while simultaneously draining the strength from your legs.

So he was staring again. Watching unblinkingly as Dean stirred his coffee and let his eyes roam the world outside the window. They'd stopped at this unassuming little diner for a bite to eat, and it was late. Neither were very hungry, or tired. They were still on a high from their latest hunt. It would be a while before the thunder would leave their blood long enough to allow sleep.

Dean sighed, the curtain of rain outside discouraging him from admiring any scenery.

"Dad's journal mentioned something about a haunting in Baltimore. Might be worth looking into," he pointed out, the force of his eyes momentarily robbing his brother of speech. He was having that affect on him more and more these days.

Sam somehow found a way respond casually. "Yeah. That's, what . . . a day's drive from here?"

"Little more than that. We could probably make it if we leave early tomorrow morning."

Jesus, was it at all possible for him to not look so . . . intense? Every word he spoke, every gesture he made seemed to have some kind of power behind it designed to scramble Sam's senses.

It didn't matter how many times he told himself that they were brothers, and both men. Nothing changed the fact that one look from Dean could force his heart into his throat, or that the rare moments when they happened to touch would send shivers down his spine. Nothing could stop the warm, flesh-coloured dreams he pretended not to remember the following day.

He loved his brother with a deep, frightening passion, and there were many levels to that love. Some of them he wanted to explore, and others he was terrified of, even ashamed of. Some of them he couldn't even describe.

Part of him believed that Dean knew. Dean was smart, not to mention observant. How could he miss the way those eyes would linger on his body after he emerged from the bathroom after a shower, nearly naked and glistening? How could he not hear his name on Sam's lips every other night as he tossed and turned in bed? And an even bigger part of him believed that, on some level, Dean was struggling with the same impossible love that plagued his little brother.

Their waitress appeared, two plates in hand laden with their food. She was pretty, and Dean naturally had to let her know in not so subtle ways that he thought so. He winked at her and glanced down at her nametag, the trademark smirk appearing on his lips. Sam clenched his fist under the table, refusing to watch.

"Cheyenne, is it?" Dean asked, leaning forward on his elbows. "I knew a Cheyenne once. Not nearly as pretty as you, though."

She smiled and stammered some kind of 'thank you', intimidated by his looks and forward charm as most girls are. Sam wanted to punch that smirk off his brother's face.

But she was shy, and quickly escaped Dean's roguish advances. He watched her go, his eyes coveting her rear end.

"Well, I guess I found my ray of sunshine for the day," he commented, clicking his teeth as he turned around to devour the pie he ordered.

"Yeah. She's cute," Sam replied tersely, stabbing his fork with more force than necessary into his own slice.

Dean eyed him. "You alright?"

"I'm fine."

He raised his eyebrows. "Sam, you realize that it's useless trying to lie to me? I know you better than anyone."

_Obviously not as well as you think_.

Sam refused to reply, and they ate in silence.

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_All he knew was the feeling of that body pressed against his from above, that familiar skin hot with sweat against his own. Strong arms and legs pinning him down in a blissful cage from which he had no intention of escaping. That mouth blazing a trail of fire from his lips to the base of his neck, torturing him. He arched his back and forced their bodies to melt together, signaling for more, needing more. Obligingly the mouth worked its way back up to meet his, and he felt those fingers slide up from his stomach to his chest, and further up to push the damp hair out of his eyes –_

Sam convulsed into awareness, the cold touch of his brother's hand on his arm shocking in contrast to the heat of his dream. He was trembling, and outside it was still raining.

Dean was above him, looming in the dark. They were close, so close that Sam could almost see himself reflected in those eyes so enticingly lit by the streetlight outside. And then he knew. He _knew_ that he had been moaning Dean's name, loud enough to pull his brother from the depths of slumber. He knew that there was no way Dean could pretend not to understand anymore. Suddenly the room felt sweltering, suffocating, and he couldn't keep from staring hungrily at the patterns of rainfall shadowed on that firm, bare torso.

"Sam. God _damn _you."

The words were dark, heavy with anger and something else Sam couldn't place. "Dean, what –"

"Do you want me?"

Sam gaped at him, unable to tear his eyes away from his brother's. "I . . . what?"

"Simple question, Sammy. Yes or no?"

"Simple? Dean . . ." Sam stammered, his heart hammering wildly. "The way I feel . . ."

God, if only he would stop _looking_ at him that way! That fierce, penetrating gaze, distracting him to no end, forcing him to answer the questions he had been ignoring ever since Dean showed up on his doorstep all those months ago.

"I just . . . I can't –"

"Sam," he cut him off. "Do. You. Want me."

"Yes." How small that word was, how briefly it filled the silence between words.

Dean leaned forward suddenly, pressing their foreheads together, and for the first time Sam realized they were both sweating. Both shaking. They closed their eyes at the same time and Dean's hand came up, combing through his brother's dark, soft hair with a tenderness never shown before.

"Do you really think," he whispered, warming Sam's lips his breath, "that there is anything in this world I wouldn't do for you?"

"It's wrong. _So_ wrong." What a thing to say at a time like this.

"Yeah? Well at the moment, I really don't fucking care."

And then Dean was on top of him, and Sam felt those unfairly perfect lips devouring his, a tongue demanding entry. He yielded instantly and pulled his brother's hard body against his, his hands sliding up that hot, gleaming back. Exploring. Searching.

Dean's fingers roamed his little brother's long, lean figure, delighting at the sensation of those abs grinding softly against his, their legs tangling in a mad rush to find a comfortable position. His lips moved from Sam's mouth to his jaw, then down his neck to his collarbone, nipping this skin lightly along the way. Sam clung to him, nails digging in, silently begging him not to stop. God, it had been so long, way too long, and everything felt as perfect as he had dared himself to imagine in the hidden corners of his mind. His sick, perverted, desperate mind.

"Jesus Christ," Sam gasped when Dean's hand ventured lower. "_Dean_ . . ."

Dean smirked into his little brother's chest, loving every shudder and moan he caused. Sam's head fell back into the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Love you," he whispered, his lips barely moving. Dean froze and looked up at him, so naked and exposed and everything he could ever possibly want. The only thing in life he ever truly allowed himself to need and love in a way that would destroy him if he ever lost it. It didn't matter what kind of love it was. It was all he had, and it consumed him, and suddenly he realized there was nothing to fear anymore.

"Ditto," he replied in a deep, throaty chuckle that shot another ripple of pleasure through his brother's body. "Big time."

He moved up and kissed Sam again, slower and softer than before. The night stretched out before them, an eternity that somehow didn't feel long enough. Lips met, legs entwined, and arms found the right places to hold onto, and always, always their hearts beat together as one.


End file.
